


Disorder

by socksfordobby



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Chan, Drama, Explicit Language, Gen, M/M, Sexual Content, Slash sex, Spoilers, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-01 04:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10181102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socksfordobby/pseuds/socksfordobby
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Harry Potter expects his decomposing corpse to be used as a footstool, after being kidnapped by Voldemort... but is kept alive. "Potter has no training of the mind. He will be very easy to break."





	1. Desk

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

**Author's Note:** Be forewarned, this story is dark, and depressing. It does not have a happy beginning, middle, and I do not guarantee a happy ending. It is not my intent to portray Harry or Voldemort as sexy or sensual. It is not the aim of this story to have Harry kidnapped by Voldemort, raped by him, fall in love with him, and refuse to leave him. I do not write non-con romance, or erotica, therefore there will be no romance or erotica in this story.

**Chapter I: Desk**

"Kitty, kitty, kitty!" Harry darted upstairs after the cat. He did not want her to find a way into his bedroom to get his owl – there had been enough bloodshed in the past few weeks, he was sure.

The Dursleys were cat-sitting. Mr. and Mrs. Grunnings of Grunning's Drills had asked them to cat-sit their feline while they were on holiday in Bora Bora. Uncle Vernon was taking this as a huge honour, but Harry really didn't think that it was. After all, if Mr. Grunnings thought the Dursleys were _that_ great, why not board the cat at a veterinarian clinic and take the Dursleys _with_ them to Bora Bora?

All things kitty-duty had fallen to Harry. Aunt Petunia was deathly allergic, and Dudley was only interested in wanting to hang it up by its tail. Harry didn't mind the kitty – it provided him a much needed distraction.

The kitty had run into Dudley's room. Not that this surprised Harry much. Dudley's room was such a mess that the mice were probably starting their own colony. And kitties loved mice.

"Kitty... kitty?" Harry brought his voice down to a whisper as he peered into Dudley's stinky room. Strictly speaking, he wasn't _allowed_ in Dudley's room. He had _never_ been allowed in Dudley's room. But Aunt Petunia would _kill_ Harry if he just let the kitty shed all over Dudley's bed.

Dudley's room, once upon a time, had had blue walls and blue carpet. The blue walls, you could still see a bit of through the stuff-lined walls. The carpet had been buried under broken toys and empty sweet wrappers long ago.

The kitty was rubbing up against Dudley's unused desk, meowing insistently.

"Kitty, let's get out of here," Harry whispered. "Dudley's bad news."

His heart stopped a moment when he spotted the big, clunky computer that Dudley had. He had heard from Muggle world, that computers were the wave of the future. That anything you needed to know, you could find on the computer.

Harry seriously doubted that he would find anything on Dudley's computer about Voldemort, especially because the young wizard had not the slightest clue of how to use one. But the idea alone enticed him, and he took an eager step forward. After all, Dudley wasn't around, and Harry was desperate for some real news.

But a terrible stench stopped him.

"Ugh." Harry made a face. "What's Dudley keeping in that desk? If it's food, I'll kill him. I'm so tired of following his stupid diet plan-"

He opened a desk drawer to reveal two-day-old fish and chips from McRoy's, something Dudley was apparently saving for a rainy day.

"Oh, that's gross," Harry complained, as the kitty began to investigate. "Don't eat it, kitty – it's bad. It's-" He stopped short, before pulling something out from under the fish and chips wrappers.

It was a magazine, perfect for Dudley because it seemed to be mostly pictures. But it wasn't a sports magazine like Quidditch Quarterly, or a kid's one like Beedlum and Goose, like all of the firsties were subscribed to.

No, it was a Muggle magazine, full of pictures of girls. Women. Women a lot older than Harry or Dudley. Old woman... like, twenty-five years-old. Women wearing nothing but their knickers – seriously! Not even a brassiere!

Harry had never seen a woman without a brassiere on before. He had also never seen a woman without knickers before. He had seen them in _almost_ nothing, like that swimsuit poster Dean had on their dormitory wall last year. But that was _almost_ nothing – Harry decided that _almost_ was a good word.

Harry had missed sex ed at Muggle school by going to Hogwarts where there was no such thing, but he had never felt like he was missing anything. After all, he knew what sex was, and the guys Harry roomed with talked dirty about girls all the time. Rumour had it that first week of school, Snape had all the fifth-years brew 'don't-get-pregnant' potions.

But actual sex, Harry had never seen or experienced before. And looking at Dudley's dirty magazine, the way those two ladies went at it, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

* * *

"Diddy!" Aunt Petunia cried out as Dudley defensively claimed the magazine as his, and snatched it from Harry's hands.

Harry slipped into the sitting room and looked out the window, searching the skies and streets, as Aunt Petunia screeched.

He had gotten a letter from Sirius a week ago (that, just like everyone's letters, made little to no mention of Voldemort), making mentions of an 'awfully wonderful', 'terribly amazing', 'fantastic' plans, but also to not get his hopes up, because there were risks and loopholes.

That was pretty vague, but Harry trusted Sirius more than any other living person, except for maybe Dumbledore. If Sirius said it was wonderful, it was. Harry wished he had more clues to what Sirius was talking about, though. He had been revealed to Harry as his innocent godfather, and had given him the best broomstick available in the UK. He couldn't think of anything more terrific, but the anticipation put some excitement into his life where there was none.

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia shrieked, waving the dirty magazine in Harry's face. The unblinking model on the cover looked weird to him, now that he had gotten used to moving photographs. "You had better explain yourself!"

Why was it that every time Harry tried to get Dudley in trouble, it backfired?

"I went into Dudley's room to get the kitty. I- um... a drawer was open, and I saw the-"

"You stole it!" Dudley accused, jamming a fat finger in front of Harry.

A normal, reasonable person would have ignored Harry's role in Dudley's magazine discovery, or even thanked him for discovering it. The Dursleys weren't like that.

"Stealing!" Aunt Petunia was still rambling when Harry bothered to listen again. "That's what they teach you at that no-good school? Well, now you have ruined our day! I can't leave you alone here - Vernon would be so angry if I left you alone to steal our valuables."

"Anger management classes might help." Harry received a slap for his comment on his uncle's anger issues.

"Mum!" Dudley whined. "We can't take him with us!"

Harry didn't want to go to the mall with the Dursleys, especially if Piers Polkiss was going. He didn't want to go in boring shop after boring shop, dreaming of the Galleons he had in his vault that he could spend on what he wanted in the wizarding world. He didn't want to get pushed and shoved by Dudley and Piers, if he could avoid it.

No, he'd much rather stay back on Privet Drive.

But he didn't have much of a choice, and that was how the mess began; with a desk. A desk drawer. A disorderly desk drawer.

Harry hated desks.


	2. Disappeared

**Chapter II: Disappeared**

The ride to the shopping mall went excruciatingly slow for Harry. He had been forced to sit in the back seat of the Dursley's station wagon with Dudley's pal, Pier Polkiss. Piers was slinky and slimy, with short curly hair, and a grin that gave Harry the creeps. It was a grin that reached his eyes, but the look in his eyes wasn't reassuring.

One shop Dudley and Piers spent a long time in was the sweet shop. They bought and swiped more sweets than Harry could ever eat. Harry would never think of eating eight kgs of jelly babies in one sitting, but that was the plan in Dudley's mind, he was sure.

Harry focused intently on a container of sour sweets. He didn't want to look at Aunt Petunia, who kept shooting him dark looks, no doubt because it was somehow _his_ fault that Dudley was not as innocent as she thought he was. He didn't want to look at Dudley or Piers, because they would find a way to get him into _bad_ trouble. And he didn't want to look at the shop lady, because once she realised sweets were being stolen, she'd naturally blame Harry.

_I wonder if everyone is blaming me for what's going on with Voldemort. Maybe that's why no one is telling me anything. Maybe they don't want me to feel bad. Maybe they don't want me to be scared, like they kept me in the dark with Sirius. Maybe the Ministry is blaming me for Voldemort's return, and wants to send me to Azkaban, so Dumbledore is hiding me at the Dursleys, forever and ever._

The sickening feeling that Harry had been feeling for a month came back, very strongly, like it did whenever he thought too much about Voldemort, and the future of not only the wizarding world, but the human race.

"I've got to use the loo," Harry said, abruptly. He didn't wait for an answer from Aunt Petunia – he just dashed.

The loo had two stalls, both empty, so Harry dashed into one, seeking a hiding place from his-so called family, and other Muggles. He didn't want to be around all of this normal every day Muggle stuff. He want to be in the wizarding world, perfectly aware of everything that was going on. He wanted to have attended Cedric's funeral, he wanted to know what Sirius' great surprise was.

Four weeks before, Harry had witnessed the first death that he could recall, in his life. He had witnessed Voldemort coming back to life. He witnessed his father's former best friend cutting off his own hand. He had discovered, for sure, that Draco Malfoy's dad was a Death Eater.

And he had seen Cedric Diggory get killed, by Voldemort.

Harry gagged over the toilet bowl, but nothing came out. He had been cursed with no gag reflexes, apparently.

He reached to grab some toilet paper, to wipe the spit from around his mouth, but didn't. Because there was something protruding from behind the toilet paper. Something Harry didn't want to touch.

A penis was coming through a hole in the wall.

Harry startled, jumping back so much that he nearly tripped over the toilet. He had heard rumours about these types of situations before – there was even a hole punched out in one of the stalls in a Hogwarts loo, marked with a 'P+M'. But it was a boarding school, so that made sense. But in a public loo? In the mall? In Little Hangleton?

"Uh, uh, uh... no thank you," Harry sputtered. He turned and ran outside the loo, not turning back or stopping to see who it had been.

_That's disgusting!_ Harry's heart pounded as he ran back to the sweet shop. _Why would anyone want to do that? What kind of pervert would touch a strange guy's... ugh!_

"Where's Piers?" Aunt Petunia demanded when Harry got back to the shop. "He followed you to the loo!"

Harry's stomach did somersaults, and he thought he would be sick, yet again.

_That was Piers in there! That was him! No wonder he had been looking at me so creepily! He knew that hole was there!_

Logically, that was... illogical. Piers had no way of knowing that Harry would run to the loo, no way of knowing Harry would use a stall instead of a urinal. No way of knowing that the loo would be empty. He had preyed upon Harry, yeah, but it wasn't completely set up in that way. And Piers wasn't gay, Harry knew that.

_But why would he stick himself through that hole, then? And if that wasn't him, how come I didn't see him outside?_

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by someone speaking behind him.

"Harry." It was Lupin, accompanied by a pink-haired lady and Mad-Eye Moody – the real Mad-Eye Moody – who stuck out like a sore thumb amongst Muggles. Harry didn't think a werewolf, Mad-Eye, and a pink-haired lady should go out together in Muggle public. Ever.

Not that he cared – he liked people who were different, who weren't uniform, like everyone in Little Whinging seemed to be.

"Harry, come with us. We must go now," Lupin continued. He was taking quick, short breaths,. He sounded like he had just run a long ways. He looked pretty much the same as last time Harry had seen him, except his clothes had a couple new patches.

"Huh?" Harry said. "Wait- Huh? Why are... Why are you guys here?"

_Polyjuice_.

"Wait, prove it to me that you're Professor Lupin." He had learned his lesson four weeks ago with Barty Crouch, Jr. He had been under the illusion for months, as had most people, that the Defence teacher was an ex-Auror, when it was really a Death Eater on Polyjuice potion.

"Harry, we haven't time!" Lupin panted, reaching out a hand for Harry. "Trust me!"

"No!" Moody growled. "The boy's right! Constant vigilance!"

"Um... um, the thing you took from me in third-year... the parchment. What'd you have to say to wipe it clean."

The Marauders Map. The map Harry's father, Sirius, Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew had put together when they were about Harry's age.

"Mischief-" Lupin began to say the answer to a question that only a few living people knew the answer to, something that only someone who knew the answer could ask the question.

Harry felt hands latch onto him. Cold hands, with a tight grip. They grabbed him from behind. And before he could register what was happening, before he could yell for help, the world around him began to find in a white mist.

And then there was darkness. Terrible darkness.

* * *

Darkness. Darkness was an interesting thing. In darkness, you could not see anything. Even if you strained your eyes, in attempt to see past the darkness, it was still dark.

Harry knew all about darkness. He was used to it. The cupboard under the stairs had usually been dark, and even Harry's bedroom at the Dursleys was pretty dim, because Uncle Vernon had taken out the light bulb, not believing in wasting electricity on 'the boy'.

But darkness like this, he had never known.

He was not asleep. He knew he wasn't. This wasn't like a dream. In a dream, you could not feel, or smell, like he could at the moment. He was either awake in a dark room, or-

_You're blind. Your eyes have officially gone to hell. You will never see again._

He tried to bring a hand up to his eyes, to see if his glasses were still there, to see if his _eyes_ were still there, but found that he couldn't. He could not feel binds tying him down, but they had to be there, because he was incapable of movement. Unless there was a spell...

_Maybe there is a spell to paralyse someone._ The thought had never occurred to him. He had never wanted to leave someone stock still, unable to move. He could not imagine why anyone would want to do that.

He suspected that he was lying on a floor. He could feel himself lying down, his head, shoulders, buttocks and calves against icy cold concrete, or tile. Or flat stone. It brought a chill to his body. His shoulders ached from the hardness, his spine ached from the cold.

_You're naked,_ he realised with sudden horror. _The reason you can feel the stone and are so cold is because you're not wearing any clothes._

Embarrassment and shame flooded through him. He had always been the modest one. The overly modest one. Harry knew he was really skinny, pale, and unattractive. Ugly. His face wasn't so bad, but you could see all the ribs in him, and he didn't have any chest hair, even though his was fifteen. His arse was skinny, and his penis was too small. Small so that everyone would look away.

He was self-conscious, but couldn't move to cover himself. It was dark, assuming Harry's eyes weren't poked out, so at least no one could see him.

His nakedness brought his attention to something he had not paid attention to as of yet - his penis. Hissense of touch.

Something was happening to his penis. He could feel something rubbing it. Rubbing it firmly, but gently. It didn't hurt. Sometimes, it tickled a bit, but for the most part, it gave him a feeling that made him want to squirm. He could feel a pulsing, a feeling down there that felt hot, compared to the cold everywhere else. He could feel a wetness, just a bit.

Harry had experimented a couple times over the past year or so. Not much, because he had an immense fear of getting caught. He could remember being little, and playing with himself in the cupboard under the stairs. Aunt Petunia had caught him, spanked him, called him a 'dirty boy', and had warned him that the next time, she would cut it off. He wasn't exactly worried about someone punishing him for it at school, but God forbid anyone catch him doing it – it _was_ a boarding school, after all.

It wasn't as if he had known what he was doing, anyway. He didn't have the patience, to keep rubbing so fast and stuff, to finish. He hadn't had the concentration.

But whoever – or whatever – was doing this knew what he – or she – or it - was doing. The fingers would massage in different motions, squeeze his balls, and do all sorts of things. The fingers were not hot or cold. They were calloused feeling, and yet, did not feel foreign at all. They felt as if they could be Harry's own.

But they weren't – Harry couldn't move his.

_Someone is molesting you. Touching you. Touching you 'down there'._ He remembered being at the age one began primary school, and someone drilling it into his head that he was to never touch, or let another one touch him there, that it was bad. He couldn't remember who had told him that - surely it hadn't been his aunt or uncle. They hadn't care enough to tell him that. Perhaps it had been a primary school teacher.

Regardless of who had told him, _someone_ was _touching_ him. Someone was _touching_ him and it was _bad_. It was _dark_ , someone was touching him, and Harry couldn't see or stop them.

The feeling was unbearable. He felt like he was going to explode. But it wasn't a bad unbearable – if he had consented to it, knew who it was, wasn't so scared, knew where he was, and other things, it would have felt good.

_You're being touched and think it feels good? You're nuts! No wonder you're a dirty boy._

His mouth and throat were both dry. His tongue felt like Crookshanks' – rough, dry, and foreign.

Harry opened his mouth, and tried to speak. Croak out a protest, a scream for help... moan because of the pleasure his body felt, and in protest of it.

But nothing came out. Nothing... unless his hearing, as well as his eyesight, was shot.

The feeling the quickened fingers had given him was starting to become unbearable. All Harry wanted was for the person to stop. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare

(gloryhole-induced nightmare)

and yet, if it stopped now, he didn't know what he'd do.

And then, he exploded, falling back into oblivion.


	3. Demon

"Yes, that's it now. Open the eyes. That is it."

Harry's eyes fluttered open. He was no longer in the dark, but in the light. The very opposite.

_You've died,_ Harry realised, the earlier events in the dark rushing back to him. _You went into the light, and you died. You had your first orgasm and it killed you. Way to go, Potty._

"Focus them," a smooth voice said. His voice was soft, and caring. It was the kind of voice you instinctively trusted. It actually sounded a lot like Lupin's voice – strong, but still gentle. Only Lupin's voice was rough, not smooth, so it couldn't be him...

_Maybe all that symbolism drivel Trelawney shoves down our throat makes sense. Maybe I was being hurt by someone... Piers, maybe, when it was dark, and when I was rescued, I woke up to the light. Light, dark. Good, evil._

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, and then opened them again, trying to put his surroundings into focus. He could begin to make out a few dark shapes in the whiteness – one shadow moved out of the way, out of view.

"The vision change is going to take some getting used to," the voice continued, "but it can be done – the blinking will help."

_Vision change? What vision change?_ Harry's vision couldn't change. Not unless it got worse. Harry knew this for a fact. During his first year at Hogwarts, tired of repairing his glasses, he had asked Madame Pomfrey to fix his eyesight for good. She had told him that it wasn't an option for him, that he had too many problems with being near-sighted and depth perception, combined with the blast of green light of the Killing Curse on his still-developing eyes. Apparently only people with super mild eye problems could have their vision magically restored to perfect.

Harry's eye issues were not super mild at all.

"Vision changes?" He tried to asked, but not much sound came out. He couldn't make much sound with his dry throat.

He did, however, take the suggestion and begin blinking.

"I am sure you will want something to drink," the voice continued, up close again. The shadow – the person – came back into Harry's view.

_Where am I? What's going on?_ Harry assessed his situation as he continued to blink. He was still lying on a floor, but this was not hard – it was soft carpet. And when it came to bringing his hand up to rub his eyes... he found that he could.

That helped bring everything into focus. Her was not wearing his glasses, but found that he could see every bit of the white ceiling better than he might have been able to with them on.

A face looked down at him and smiled. A smile that displayed perfectly straight and white teeth, far too many of them.

Harry yelped, and backed up on his elbows. He didn't get far though, due to a rush of blood leaving his head, weakness, and the fact that he ran into a fireplace. The stones were warm, due to the fire in the hearth.

"Calm, Pet," Voldemort said, easing himself into the armchair, facing the fire. "I do not like the look in your eye – it is distressing."

Harry's heart pounded as he stared at the villain. Harry was nude, and utterly defenceless, his wand apparently confiscated with his clothing. Even with his wand, he was nothing up against Voldemort. Were it not for the supposedly twin cores, he would have died four weeks ago.

Voldemort's skin was thin, tight around his skill. It was almost white, no colour in his cheeks. His ears were little more than small bits of skin surrounding tiny holes, on each side of his head. His nose was flat, with only slits for nostrils. The thin lips were just as pale as the skin. He wore long, trailing, voluminous black robes that not only covered his feet, but inches of floor.

He was scarier looking than Harry had remembered.

"Come away from the fire," Voldemort beckoned with one abnormally long finger. "It would not due for my new pet to get burned."

Harry did not budge. Of course Voldemort wouldn't want Harry to get burned up – he wanted to kill him with his own hands.

Harry was a Gryffindor. Gryffindors were known for their bravery. But Harry, as a Gryffindor, knew the difference between no fear, and bravery. You could be scared enough to shit your trousers, and still be brave.

But right now, he only felt the former.

"Now, Pet, I realise that you are afraid at the moment, and I will not punish you for your disobedience. But such behaviour will not be tolerated in the future. Inadvertent blunders will be treated with a gentle, although firm, guided hand, but deliberate misconduct will result in consequences most severe."

_There that word is again. 'Pet'._ For the third time, Voldemort had called Harry by that. 'Pet'. As if he were... well, Harry wasn't sure.

"I-" he began to cough, his throat so dry, it began to hurt.

"Breathe, Pet." Voldemort leaned forward.

Harry glared up at Voldemort. _I am not your pet,_ he tried to tell him via the darkest look he could muster.

Voldemort chuckled. It wasn't comforting. "Ah, but you are my pet."

It took Harry a moment to realise it, but Voldemort had understood exactly what Harry had been trying to get across.

He chuckled once again. "Yes, Pet – I can read the mind. Every thought, regardless of how trivial, I can hear. I can see images, hear and view memories... looking at it now, I can see everything."

Everything? How could Voldemort see _anything_? Or even everything? Everything? The cupboard under the stairs, the incident with the spiders, the incredibly guilty, shameful thing in the dark? _Everything_?

"Pet has been here for three days," Voldemort calmly said, as if he were discussing the weather. "It was unconscious when brought in – I realise it was its first time Disapparating. When it was asleep, it was drained, its vision repaired, and deemed in perfect health.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Harry was the 'it'.

A sickening feeling filled Harry's stomach. Bile filled his mouth, as the events of the previous night

( _or night before that? This afternoon?_ He had no a clue)

flooded through his brain. He wanted to add 'and touched in a bad way' to Voldemort's list, but couldn't not speak without coughing, and didn't want to give Voldemort the satisfaction of watching him struggle.

"Here, Pet will spend the rest of its days. All 65,784 of them – an approximation, of course, and that is only assuming I decide to reside here for the next one hundred sixty-five years, which is highly... unlikely." Voldemort licked his lips with his forked tongue. "As of today, Pet is permitted in this room only – it is not to go through any doors."

_And let me guess – there are wards and spells that will zap me if I do._ Harry looked around the room. It was large, and though decorated, not lavishly. The walls were brownish, and the plush carpet was, too. There was a massive bed in the centre of the room, bigger than any bed Harry had ever seen before in his life. There was also a small bedside table, and the chair Voldemort was in – no other furniture.

But most important were the two doors, shut, that led to escape. Freedom.

The room itself was windowless, letting no sunlight in, leaving you unable to tell whether it was raining or snowing. There were no books, toys, or drawers that might hold a bit of interest.

_It's not a room. It's a cage._

"Pet will never speak unless spoken to, to any of Master's servants, unless permitted otherwise. Pet will never stand on its feet, but will remain on the floor, unless told otherwise. Pet will obey Master's word at all times." Voldemort's red eyes flashed. "Nothing is debatable."

Harry stayed pressed up against the warm stones. He did not move. He just glared at Voldemort, to hide both his terror and disbelief.

Somehow, Lupin, Moody, and the pink-haired lady had known that Voldemort was attempting to kidnap Harry, and had tried to stop it. But Voldemort had still managed. But he had apparently not kidnapped Harry with the intention of killing him, which one would think was Voldemort's aim.

65,000-odd days was a long time. Harry wasn't a maths whiz like Hermione, but he knew how many days were in a year. 365. A lot of years had to go by for there to be 65,000-odd days. A lot.

Voldemort didn't intend to kill him. Voldemort intended for Harry to live out the average lifespan of a healthy wizard, about one hundred eighty years. Everyone knew that Voldemort wanted to kill Harry. The simple fact that everyone knew it didn't seem like something that would change Voldemort's mind.

Voldemort stood from his chair. "Pet is very weak – it must eat something. Laslo!"

A cowering house-elf appeared in the room. He, like all other enslaved house-elves, wore something like a pillow case. He stared at the floor, and nervously squeaked, "Yes, Master? How may Laslo help Master?"

Voldemort didn't even look at the quivering house-elf. "Fetch a plate of tuna, and a bowl of milk." He smiled at Harry. "My kitten must eat."

* * *

Logic told Harry that the plate of cooked, shredded tuna was not poisonous. Voldemort didn't kidnap Harry to poison him – he would kill him by magic, strangulation perhaps. But it would be by his own hand, or not at all.

Harry liked fish. He liked to eat his fish from McRoys, doused in vinegar. Hermione had convinced him to try tartar sauce, and he liked that, too. Fish was a British staple, one might say. But tuna was not his favourite. Especially without a fork.

He sniffed the bowl of milk. Milk. Liquid. A beverage. Something to soothe a sandpaper tongue. Creamy, cold milk.

_If you drink it, and it's mixed with a weird potion, it doesn't matter. If you don't drink it, you'll die from dehydration._

Well aware of Voldemort's eyes watching him, he carefully picked up the porcelain bowl and brought it to his lips, preparing to welcome the soothing drink.

But he did not have a chance – the bowl lifted from his hands, and floated gently down to the floor, in its original spot, without sloshing or spilling a drop.

Harry imagined a thousand ways to hex Voldemort. How dare he offer him milk so desperately needed, and take it away? That was the type of guy Voldemort was – not a villain, but a demon.

"Kitten will drink the milk," Voldemort said. "Kitten with eat and drink without use of its hands, or not at all. Master is watching."

What was with all the use of the third-person? What was with the use of 'kitten'? Harry was not a pet, or a kitten, or an it. He was a human being, and would not play his twisted game.

"Drink, Kitten," Voldemort urged.

"No," Harry said, as much as it hurt his throat to say, as hoarse and quiet as it came out.

Voldemort's demon eyes flashed. His red eyes seemed redder still. "Drink, Kitten, or you will die."

_You won't let me die. You would have done it already._

"Kitten, remember my words; behaviour such was this will not be tolerated. Kitten is to listen to its master's words."

_I hear, but it's hard to_ listen _. I also kind remember you saying that I wouldn't be punished, because I'm afraid._

And he was. Very afraid. He didn't shake or quake like the house-elf, Laslo, had done, because he had pride and bravery. He did not cry for the same reasons. But inside, he was crying and shaking both.

"Kitten will be unable to touch the bowl with its hands." Voldemort walked with fluidly and grace, reminiscent of Snape, over to one of the doors. "Kitten will eat its food, lest it spoil, before I return. If not, Kitten will suffer the consequences, and neither Kitten or I want that, do we, Kitten?" Voldemort paused, as if waiting for a response. "And it can stop wishing for a rescue – it will not come. Kitten is home."

Voldemort left, leaving Harry stunned. Harry had been thinking of rescue – the thought of Snape had provoked it.

There was no way that Dumbledore would let Voldemort keep Harry trapped like this, as his... slave or something. Sirius and the Weasleys wouldn't stand for it. And Lupin was on their side, too, right?

_They will come. It's my once yearly end-of-the-year adventure come early, is all. And I'm okay – I'm no different than I was when I came here._

He looked over his naked body, to be sure, his eyes coming to rest on his bits. He was all the same, except...

Harry touched it, the guilt he felt over the terrible ordeal in the dark/nightmare eating him. Tears began to fall, and with no one in the room to put a front on for, he did not stop them


	4. Devising

Severus Snape stood after Dumbledore's opening of the Order of the Phoenix , he hated speaking at Order meetings – it served as a constant reminder of the terrible mistakes he had made, of why he was serving as a spy in the first place. He usually felt provoked by Black's middle finger, by sympathetic looks, by angry outbursts.

But the last one they had, the night before, had been different than any Order meeting had ever been since they restarted the Order four weeks ago. Potter's capture by the Dark Lord had led to a leap in maturity in Black, which translated into depression. That was not to say that Black was any more reasonable than a fifth-year student, but it had made him less obnoxious, admittedly.

Overall, everyone had one concern, and a single focus. The meetings were about something more specific than 'Voldemort is back, what do we do?' – they were about rescuing Potter.

And that made Severus' role as a spy more important than ever.

It made him more than a spy. It made him a secret agent. Wonderful.

"We need to devise a plan to rescue Potter," Severus began.

"Yeah, no shit, Snape," Black shot out. He looked terrible. He had just begun to visually look as if he had _not_ just got out of Azkaban – hair neatly combed, shaven, robes clean – but now he looked like he had taken several steps back. There were dark circles under his eyes, three days worth of beard growth, hair unbrushed, and robes wrinkled and dirty. Severus supposed he could be grateful that Lupin made him clean his teeth, or the meeting could be even more miserable.

"Sirius," Lupin reprimanded in a near whisper. Severus could see the werewolf slip his furry palm underneath the table, gripping the hand of that next to him, Black. Very discreetly, of course.

"The Dark Lord does not intend to kill Potter," Severus selectively spoke, reporting the information only necessary. "Potter is not in mortal danger. That means that we have time to come up with a foolproof plan."

Foolproof plans were important in a room filled with mostly Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.

"We need to act as soon as possible," young Nymphadora Tonks argued, making eyes at Lupin.

The girl was pathetic, Severus privately thought. Black and Lupin were very private about their affair, the one that they had had since Nymphadora was only a toddler. It was not a secret, per se – the Hufflepuff was just oblivious, as most Hufflepuffs were. It was amusing to watch her make her moon eyes at a homosexual werewolf, however, so Severus did not interject.

"I disagree," Arthur Weasley put in. To his credit, Lupin nodded in agreement. "If we try to help and fail, that could put Harry in peril he's not yet in."

"Potter will never be put in mortal peril," Severus reinforced the idea to the Ravenclaws, and simple Houses. "The Dark Lord has made mention of punishing him to a select few, but I cannot imagine they will be anything more than psychological, which may make the boy miserable, but he will survive." Severus did not bother to feign sympathy. He held Potter in disdain, and did not bother to try to keep it a secret. It wasn't as if the notion made the other Order members look further down on him – they couldn't.

"I'll be damned the day that monster tries to mess with my godson's brain!" Black pounded his fist on the table.

Severus knew little of the Dark Lord's plans concerning Potter, who was to be referred to as 'Pet' by the Dark Lord's followers at all times. Under the threat of terrible punishment. He had a feeling that a few of the privileged Death Eaters, ones in the 'inner circle', would eventually gain access to the 'Pet' and that was something Severus hoped for – it would make stealing him away easier on his part.

Dumbledore knew why the Dark Lord was so keen to keep Potter alive, but he did not tell Severus. Or tell anyone, for that, matter. He operated off of a need-to-know basis, which seemed both a blessing and a curse.

"Then prepare to be damned, Black, because I am sure power play over Potter is at work," Severus said. "I can vouch for him being in, ah... comfortable conditions. He is not in a dank dungeon, but in a comfortable series of rooms." He found it unnecessary to say the rooms belonged to the Dark Lord, which would only begin a riot.

"Where the Dark Lord – and consequently, Potter – resides is a large, one-storey building, in the country. It is not Unplottable, as many Muggle lovers are brought there for, ah..."

"You needn't say, Severus," Lupin voiced. "We know."

"It is, however, well hidden. It is a series of rooms and suites, linked by winding halls. It was created by Death Eaters, and therefore has little vulnerability. There are no windows, and only two doors leading directly to the outside. A major weakness is a courtyard, located in the centre of the building – there are four doors leading out to it. However, I am certain the space above is heavily warded."

"I said that P-Potter is not in a dungeon, not that there was not one." Severus nearly slipped and called the boy 'Pet', as a strict new habit. That would not go over well in the Order meeting. "It is used to house prisoners, so consequently it is not only heavily warded, but guarded. There is, however, a small culvert that allows water to stream through – it is only small enough for a very slender person to slide through, and that would be assuming you could remove the iron bars."

"Well, the obvious move would be a diversion," Arthur Weasley very sensibly – and Gryffindorly – brought up. "Groups try to come in from each doorway – that way one could fly into the courtyard unnoticed."

"Once Death Eaters became aware of a breach in wards, they would strengthen them, and watch for you so that you cannot imagine," Severus retorted. "That is a poor plan, Weasley."

"What of finding a way to slip into the dungeons, and posing as a prisoner for a brief time?" Lupin suggested. "Assuming one was slender enough, they could slip through the bars. Dora is thin, and perhaps could make herself more so. If the guards were given a sleeping potion-"

Gryffindors were incapable of planning.

"Stop it, Lupin – you're making my ears bleed," Severus complained. "Has anyone a plan worth sharing? You've had forty-eight hours – more than enough time – to come up with one."

"Well, what have you come up with?" Black challenged. "If you're such a genius."

"I do not see any way to smuggle Potter out, without using someone from the inside. That would, naturally, have to be me," Severus said. "I know precisely where he is, and when to best get him. I would need someone to hand him off to, to avoid my status as a spy being compromised."

"Potter may be uncooperative. We need to not only suspect it, but plan on it," Severus continued.

"Why would he be uncooperative?" a member asked. "Surely-"

"What the Dark Lord can do to the strongest of minds is remarkable," Severus said. "Potter has no training of the mind – he will be very easy for the Dark Lord to break."

"You don't know him," Lupin spoke, quiet as always. "You're not sure of that."

"Oh, I am not only sure – I know."

* * *

Harry blinked repeatedly, wiping the grit out of his eyes. He did not have that brief 'where am I'; 'what's going on' thing. When crying yourself to sleep, that apparently got avoided.

The room had taken on a terrible fishy smell. Rolling over, he could see the bowl of tuna had taken on a dark brown colour, and the milk had a suspicious thick layer over the top.

_'Kitten will suffer the consequences.'_ Consequences. Consequences that Voldemort would invoke. Voldemort's consequences were no doubt severe.

_So what? He's going to kill you, anyway. Might as well be on your terms._

He looked over at the curdling milk and shuddered. He was thirsty, so thirsty, but was not about to drink that stuff. That disgusting stuff. And even were he to drink it, he would use his hands, not drink it like a 'pet'.

_Don't even consider it, Potter._

Slowly, he sat up from his position on the stone hearth. The fire was still lit, but Harry felt cold, no doubt stemming from his fear and nakedness. Moreover, he was very stiff.

_Of course you're stiff. You haven't really moved in awhile. Last time you were awake, you moved from the centre of the room to the hearth. Before that you were bound or paralysed. You need to move._

He leaned against the fireplace as he stood. His legs shook as he put his weight on them, but he put that out of his mind.

The two doors, shut, in the room would lead to his escape. All he had to do was-

One of the doors opened, and Voldemort walked in.

"Pet!" he snapped.

Weakly, Harry slid back down to the floor, staring up at Voldemort. He hadn't wanted Harry to stand on his feet, which Harry was able to blow off as ridiculous and ignore, but when Voldemort came into the room, that confidence left him.

Voldemort came over to Harry, towering over him. "Pet, what did I say about standing?"

Harry's throat was still killing him from lack of water. "You said not to do it, but since when do I-" It felt like his throat twisted, and the only way to stop it was to cough.

Voldemort turned and strode over to his armchair. "Come, Pet."

Harry eyed Voldemort's long spindly fingers that held his wand. A wand that had killed countless wizards. A wand that would be used to torture Harry, probably sooner than later.

He shifted, suddenly more aware of his nakedness under Voldemort's gaze.

Voldemort chuckled. "There is no need to be self-conscious. Come, Pet." His voice hardened. "Come."

Why? Why would Harry come close to Voldemort? That was like asking a rusty nail to poke you in the eyeball. With no defences, completely vulnerable... why would he do such a thing? Why did Voldemort want him to come close?

"Kitten, your master is losing his patience. Come, or the results will not be pleasant."

What was the harm in coming over to Voldemort? At worst, Voldemort would kill him. At best, he wouldn't. If Harry didn't come close, Voldemort would torture him... and then Harry would be too weak to escape later.

He took a deep breath and tentatively crawled forward to Voldemort. Moving away from the fire made him even colder, the crawling making his bits move uncomfortably.

He wouldn't have that problem long, he reckoned. Much more time around Voldemort, and his balls would probably permanently crawl back up inside him.

Finally, he knelt, on his knees, in front of Voldemort. He tried not to shake with anger as he knelt in front of the wizard. He struggled to remain in control of himself – if he pissed Voldemort off, Voldemort would be even crueler. Harry needed to stay alive, and strong.

"Who am I, Kitten?" Voldemort peered down at him with is creepy eyes.

Harry bit his tongue. _I'm not a pet. I'm not a kitty. I'm a boy. And you, to answer your question, are a psycho-control-freak-maniac._

But Harry was smart, so he didn't say that. That'd just piss Voldemort off.

"You're Voldemort." Harry glared at the man.

He gasped and jumped back in surprise, falling back on his bum, as Voldemort quickly executed a stinging hex.

"Ow!" Harry rubbed his shoulder, where the hex had hit. "What'd you do that for? It's your name – you made it up. If you don't like it, don't blame me!"

"Postponing punishment will not take it away, or lessen its severity. Who am I?"

_Voldemort. Tom Riddle. An evil-crazy-psycho-wannabe-dictator, kind of like Hitler._

_Master_. That was what Voldemort wanted to be called, Harry knew that. Voldemort wanted, for whatever twisted reason, for Harry to call him 'Master'. But Harry refused. He was not a house-elf, or a kitten. He was a boy, and would call Voldemort 'Voldemort' or 'Tom'. Hell, even 'Mr. Riddle'.

But 'Master'. That wasn't only unnatural, it was stupid.

"Kitten, Master is waiting."

Voldemort was going to punish Harry. For not eating, for standing. He was going to punish him worse than a stinging hex, because he had already done that.

Harry bit his lip and took a deep breath. He was fifteen, practically an adult. He was not a baby, or a fraidy cat. Voldemort couldn't hurt him, not really hurt him. And he needed to calm down – if he didn't stop being so scared, he might never escape.

Therefore, would it be stupid or wise to call Voldemort 'Master'? Dumb, or smart? Dumb, because it would only encourage Voldemort in whatever he was doing, and it would seem like he was surrendering. But smart, if it spared him the Cruciatus – if he was tortured too much, he would be weaker than he already was, and wouldn't be able to escape quickly. It would be smart too, because it would trick Voldemort into thinking Harry was a 'kitten' (how could Voldemort think Harry looked anything like a kitty? He was a boy – B-O-Y), so that he would be less careful... leaving Harry a good chance of escaping.

"You-" He coughed, fighting his dry throat. "You want to be called-" Cough, cough, "-'Master'." God, it made him sick to say.

"That is true, and good enough for now," Voldemort said. "Kitten will obey me at all times, regardless of the order."

Over Harry's dead body. _And it could be._

"Move closer, Kitten." Voldemort said.

_Move closer._ Move closer to _Voldemort_. That was ridiculous. Why would Harry do such a thing?

( _because 'Master' said to,_ Harry inwardly scoffed.

"Obey me." The warning undertones in Voldemort's voice scared Harry enough to obey. It wasn't like Voldemort' needed a close range to kill him, or manipulate him. Harry was in charge of what he did, of what he obeyed.

He moved, on his knees, close enough to Voldemort so that his chest touched Voldemort's knees. His back to the fire, a chill ran through him, making goosebumps. His nipples involuntarily hardened, and he prayed Voldemort didn't notice.

Voldemort didn't give any indication that he had. He leaned down, arms stretched, making to pick up Harry.

Harry yelped, and fell over himself to back up. He did not want to be touched by the evil wizard. Not at all. Being picked up from under the armpits wasn't as bad as, say, being touched _there_ in the _dark_ by an unknown _person_ or _thing_ or _spell_. But it was still being touched. By Voldemort.

"Kitten, I am growing impatient," Voldemort warned.

Why was Harry here? He wasn't supposed to be here. Wherever _here_ was. If he was confronted by Voldemort, he was supposed to be fighting, victorious or dead. He wasn't supposed to be kidnapped.

He wanted to know why. He wanted to figure out why he was there, and what he had to do to escape. He wanted to know why he was being let live (not that he was objecting), he wanted to know where his wand and clothes were. He wanted water. He wanted answers.

He wanted to ask Voldemort 'why'. He wanted to protest. Run screaming.

But he couldn't.

"Kitten," Voldemort's voice softened. "Come to Master. There is no need to shake so. I am not unreasonable, and your punishments shall not be, either."

Harry wrapped his arms tightly around himself, trying to stop the involuntary shivering Voldemort had pointed out. He was cold, that's why he was shaking. And angry at the indignity he was suffering. He wasn't scared.

Well, a little. But mostly angry.

"Come to Master,now, and the punishment will be less harsh – I promise."

_Yeah, right. Because we all know you're_ so _honest._

"I've no reason to be dishonest. It will find that its master is very honest," Voldemort said.

_He can't read your mind, he can't read your mind,_ Harry repeated silently, almost like a mantra.

A stinging hex hit his shoulder, but this time, he was prepared for it. And it was just a stinging hex – he wouldn't cry or anything.

_Just go over to him. Let him_ Crucio _you until your guts explode. If you piss him off more, he'll kill you. And he can't kill you – you need to stay alive until Dumbledore saves you._

Harry's stomach churned as he went back over to Voldemort. He blinked furiously, successfully not crying. He had had the Cruciatus before – he wasn't afraid of pain. He didn't even know why he was scared – he wasn't scared of Voldemort, or pain, and wasn't going to die or anything.

Voldemort picked him up, murmuring 'good pet' nonsense. He quickly laid Harry across his lap, and swiftly began to slap Harry's bare buttocks with his veiny hand.

_One. Two. Three. Four._

Harry yelped with two of them, in surprise. He had never received a spanking in his life without clothes on. He had never expected it to hurt like Voldemort doing it did. He had never expected Voldemort to spank him.

His face burned as his laid across Voldemort's lap, staring at the expensive carpet. He was naked, and Voldemort was spanking him. The image was too terrible to process, despite the fact that it was currently happening.

After four firm slaps, Voldemort righted Harry, manoeuvring him easily as if Harry were a rag doll. He made him sit like a little kid on Father Christmas' lap. And even thought there was no one there to see, it made Harry feel ashamed.

And mad. He made sure Voldemort knew that by his eyes. He wouldn't try to talk, and fail, indignifying himself further.

"That was for not eating its food, which its master ordered. And for standing, which I also disapprove of." Voldemort's red eyes met Harry's, who refused to look away – it'd feel like defeat.

"Its hesitation is disgraceful, a nuisance, but quite understandable," the psycho-maniac continued. "Every pet is afraid when it first gets a new master. However, that does not mean Kitten may get away with anything.

Up close, Voldemort's tight pasty skin didn't look much like skin at all to Harry. It was all scaly. If Harry looked away from Voldemort's eyes to his hands, one balancing him on his waist and the other on his knee, he'd have found scaly hands.

"I know Kitten acts out also because it is testing its boundaries and so," Voldemort's hands moved quickly and deftly, producing the object he secured around Harry's neck almost before Harry could realise what was going on. "I thought I would give Kitten something to remind itself of who its master is, and who it is to please."

The object collared around Harry's neck was heavy and tight. Suffocating. Hot. Choking.

"You're not choking, Kitten." Voldemort pretended that he could read Harry's mind again. "Stop hyper-ventilating – it is fine. Now," Voldemort sat Harry down on the floor, "Kitten will drink its water."

A bowl of water appeared in front of Harry, but he couldn't drink it – he wasn't a kitten.

He reached up and tugged at the thing chafing his neck. It was firm, and did not bend easily. It was smooth on the outer side, except for a smooth metal piece.

'TEP' the cold plate read in Harry's reflection in the water. TEP... The-something-Potter. Or, knowing the way Voldemort acted around him, the-something- _Pet_.

"Do not stress over Kitten's collar," Voldemort said in a voice that could be mistaken for as comforting. "Kitten has been here many months – it is time for it to be collared."

The words 'kitten' and 'collar' were both lost on Harry. The word that stuck out to him was 'months'.

He had not been there – wherever there was – for months! That was ridiculous! Harry had not a calendar, window, _Tempus_ , or noticeable temperature change to confirm or deny with proof, but there was no way it had been months. He had spent long hours since being captured b the Death Eaters, he knew. He knew it felt like months, but it hadn't actually been. It had been a few hours, minimum, maybe two days maximum.

He hadn't eaten or drank, but he was still alive. He hadn't had the need to use the loo, but maybe he wouldn't need to as long as he didn't eat or drink. He wasn't sure.

He was sure it hadn't been months, though. Only hours. Days.

"Drink, Kitten. Master is watching."

Harry noted with satisfaction how Voldemort called himself 'master' half of the time. He apparently didn't know that it was dumb to refer to yourself by your name, or what you considered your name to be. That was why he always called Harry 'it' – he didn't use words like 'you' and 'he' and 'I' often... not even when talking about himself.

He stared back down at his reflection in the water. He looked really pale, all colour gone from his cheeks. That mark from his first pimple was gone; one Hermione had said would take awhile to go away naturally. His eyes... his glasses were gone, and yet he could see properly. Why? How?

_Take one for the team, Harry. You can't escape if you don't survive. Drink the water like the Grunnings' kitty. Drink it, and find a way to escape. It won't mean you're not still a boy, or you're on Voldemort's team. You are doing what you can to defeat him. You aren't hurting anyone by drinking this. Except for maybe your pride. But just this once... no one is going to know._

As he began to drink the water, he heard Voldemort murmur 'good Kitten'. Words so sweet, so wrong, Harry nearly vomited what he just drank.

But he held it in. Because he was doing it to help save himself. And to be honest, he would have much rather escaped with no dignity rather than die with his dignity intact.


End file.
